


stellar remnants

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As he's about to face certain death, Cassian kisses Bodhi in a moment of desperate recklessness.Then they both survive.A fix-it story, for a friend.





	1. inaction in action

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from discussions about that old trope of people doing something brave right before they die, and the conclusion that it'd be more interesting if the character lived and had to deal with whichever consequences came from that; if you enjoy the original trope better, I suggest reading only the first chapter.  
> Also, I wrote this aiming for light and silly - it turned out to be neither. I hope it's still an enjoyable reading.  
>   
> From Cassian's POV.

He is beautiful, you think as the world crashes and burns around you, and it’s not so much a realization – more like remembering a word you’ve had on the tip of your tongue for days now. He is beautiful, standing there at the edge of everything, made of sharp edges and soft corners, eyes like a star collapsing onto itself and hands that remain quick and precise even as they shake uncontrollably (looking at him makes your chest feel tight, your ribs constricting, but the end of the world is no place to be falling in love).

He looks at you. You are trapped in the gravitational pull of his supernova eyes for a second or two, and it’s just about enough to mute the chaos ringing in your ears for a fraction of that time. His skin looks warmer than it really is - you hadn’t even noticed you’d reached for him - but his eyes seem somehow even bigger now, every step you take in his direction involuntary and inexorable as a planet reaching the perihelion on its orbit. So you tug him towards you as gently as you know how, his hair coarse against your bare hands, and you touch your forehead to his:

You close your eyes, take a deep breath; his eyelashes brush against the bridge of your nose as he shuts his eyes a moment later and you feel your pulse stutter in your veins; your thumbs fit in the hollow behind his ears; he exhales slowly, his breath warm against the skin of your inner wrists, and you shiver.

You manage to step back at some point, hours or days or maybe half a second later, and you want to say – something, anything, but his eyes stay closed for a fraction of a moment longer afterwards and you, you-

He starts to say something himself, it might be your name, but he barely manages to get one syllable out before you kiss the rest of it right out of his lips. It’s off-center but gentler than the context would imply, everything about him urges you to be gentle; his lips are dry and chapped and covered in soot for all the three seconds your surge of recklessness allows you to kiss them, but as you pull away you feel it’s enough to face death with one less regret. You allow yourself one last look into his eyes – he is still so beautiful it breaks your heart a little – and you run off into the battlefield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is brief and a bit dramatic. The second chapter will likely also be dramatic, but with much less impending death, probably. I will update this as soon as I finish writing the ending, so a week at most, I think.


	2. action in inaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian wakes up after the attack.

In the aftermath of the end, flying away from the remnants of the planet you never expected to outlive, the adrenaline finally seeps away from your body, leaves you feeling like a wrung out rag. You’re busted up and bleeding and barely conscious, and the very last thought that runs through your head before passing out on the floor of the rescue freighter is “well, that was that.”

You next wake up at the infirmary, on and off for what feels like days (might actually be days, you should ask someone about it once you can articulate words again.) Everything smells of antiseptic and singed flesh but you feel nothing, nothing, painkillers are a miracle of modern medicine and you are a devout of its church.

At maybe the seventh time you wake up, you notice Bodhi in the hospital bed opposite to yours.

It feels – surreal, it is surreal that he’s sitting there, across from you, singed and frail but wonderfully, impossibly alive. Surely you can’t be this fortunate. Maybe you’re dead. Yes, that would make more sense: maybe you never made it out of Scarif and this is all some elaborate dream your brain has conjured up to ease you into death. “It’s alright, buddy,” it seems to be saying, “everything worked out, everyone made it out, just think of something nice and let go now, it’s alright.” How unusual, for your brain to be this nice to you, but it’s so, so easy to just buy into it when your head feels full of cotton and Bodhi is smiling at you, his eyes tired but still brighter than a luminous blue variable. His hair was apparently cut off at some point, uneven, with the half of his face that isn’t covered in bacta looking pale and weak, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You may have said so aloud – or maybe the concept doesn’t apply to deathbed fever dreams – and he colors, tries to say something, gives up, scratches the clean side of his neck with a bandaged hand. What a nice dream.

At maybe the eighth time you wake up, the bed across from yours is empty.

The chair next to your bed isn’t, though. Jyn balances a datapad on her knees and scrolls through it with her left hand, her right arm resting on her lap inside a sling and her feet propped on a corner of your bed. She doesn’t seem surprised to find you awake. You wonder how long she’s been here.

“You there?”

“I think so,” you try to say, the words catching on the dryness of your throat. You drink from the glass she presses into your hand a little desperately, choke, vomit over the side of the bed.

“Well, if you’re already making bad decisions, I assume you’re all better.”

You drink the second glass at a slower pace, the water settling oddly on your empty stomach. A cleaning droid cleans up your mess while Jyn fills you in on what you’ve missed: she tells you of the Rebellion, of Baze and Chirrut, of the Princess and the General and the plans. She tells you of your stay in the bacta tank – internal bleeding, apparently – and how you’re the only one of the group still in recovery.

“The pilot?”

“Bodhi is fine,” she says, looking at you as if you said something strange. Perhaps you did. She did just say everyone has been discharged already. "A bit scarred, but good as new otherwise. They said most of the damage was just superficial.”

“Good, that’s… that’s good.”

“Mm.”

The others show up soon enough (sans Kay, who complains loudly about all his missing parts over the comlink); Baze looks like he’s lost some weight, Chirrut’s complexion looks sallow and wan. And Bodhi… Bodhi looks tired, his hair shaved off more properly, his fingers picking idly at the hem of a borrowed shirt too big for him. He smiles at you – a brief thing, more with his eyes than with his mouth – and you’re back at the ship in Scarif for a moment, the air stuttering in your lungs and him standing there, at the edge of your affection.

It’s easy to be brave when you feel you have nothing to lose; it’s harder to be brave when you feel you have time on your side. He takes you one of your hands when he sits by the bed, gentle and hesitant and warm. You twine your fingers with his, knuckles fitting together easily, and allow yourself to feel content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter than what I had anticipated, the flow didn't work properly with only two. I should post it shortly, though.


	3. an epilogue of sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of medals and more rewarding things.

The awards ceremony they hold in your honor is grand and humbling, each crewmember receiving a golden medal from the hands of the Princess herself while the whole of the Rebellion cheers loudly at your feet.

It takes all of your willpower not to run away midway through it.

You think of the war heroes in your history books, all of them larger than life and made out of moral integrity and cheekbones, and the medal feels heavy around your neck. It all feels like a ruse, a polite lie, as if this piece of jewelry will magically justify your actions and make you into a good person.

Breathe. You clasp your hands behind your back so no one will see them shaking, swallow dryly, keep your eyes firmly on the doors at the back of the pavilion until the cheers end. This isn’t about you, you think resolutely – and it does seem to help, so you repeat it in your head once more – this isn’t about you. This is about what the Rebellion needs. If the Rebellion needs to think you’re some sort of hero, it’s not your place to question it; you grit your teeth, square your shoulders, and count the seconds until it’s over.

“It’s a nice sentiment,” Jyn tells you afterwards, shrugging her unharmed shoulder as she picks idly at the medal’s ribbon, and then, “how much do you think this will fetch me at the Outer Rims?” You can’t tell how much of it is a joke.

You find Bodhi just outside the base, sitting in the dirt with his back to the building and his hands inspecting the engravings on the medal like he is trying to make sense of them. You take a seat next to him wordlessly.

“I feel as if I’m lying to everyone just by having this,” he says softly, and it takes you a second to stop admiring the elegant line of his profile and process the words. “Like I’m trying to convince everyone I’m some brave war hero.”

That almost startles a laugh out of you, but you manage to bite down on it (barely). That this man, this impossible man who broke out of the Empire to deliver a message to a cause he wasn’t part of, who was imprisoned and tortured and nearly killed for the Rebellion without even being in its ranks; that this man would echo the same halfhearted feelings of unworthiness as you is the most absurd thing you’ve heard all day.

“You are a war hero, though,” you say instead, bumping shoulders with him and trying to sound unaffected. “Officially speaking. And the bravest man I know, for what it’s worth.”

He looks at you then and stars, you may never get used to beautiful he is. His eyes are warm and curious as he studies you – you bask in his attention like a cat in the sun.

“May I kiss you?”

You attempt to say ‘yes’, but it comes out of your lips more akin to ‘always’. He frames your face gently in his cold, calloused hands, and gives you a kiss that feels like coming home; you cover his hands with yours, close your eyes, and let yourself be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this blatantly self-indulgent bit of fluff. This has been fun to write, and I can only hope it has been fun to read as well.  
> I might try to write Bodhi next time, if I'm feeling brave enough.  
> Thank you again, and I hope to see you next time!


End file.
